


Maybe I'm Your Hell

by DelilahBlueEyes



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Angst, Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:49:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelilahBlueEyes/pseuds/DelilahBlueEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izzie can’t move on after Denny and slowly slips into the delusion that he is still with her. Pure angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe I'm Your Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Major emotional issues dredged up by rewatching season 2 of Grey's and I just needed a way to get it out. The show takes a much healthier stance on the situation but I was feeling angsty, thus, angst.

Izzie knew she was in trouble. Every time she stayed in bed all morning just to watch him sleep, every meal she skipped because she didn’t want to share him with her friends, every phone call she let go straight to voice mail to keep listening to his rumbling voice as he told her stories. She knew she was falling quickly into this bad place, a place that could be the end of her if she wasn’t careful. She knew that George and Meredith whispered in the hall outside her bedroom whenever she laughed at one of his jokes or couldn’t quite stifle her moans when he touched her. And most of all she knew, with a clarity that was so sharp it ached she knew that she was slowly going insane.

 

Because Denny was dead. Had been dead for nearly a month now. His body had been whisked away to the morgue where his new heart (the heart she’d worked so hard and so desperately for) was drained of its fluids, his skin made up for a funeral that she was never invited to and buried in a cemetery that she’d never heard of across the city. He didn’t sleep next to her in her stuffy bedroom, he didn’t chuckle roughly when she shivered as his stubble grazed her skin, and he didn’t pull his fingers through her hair when she suddenly began to cry deep, bone-rattling sobs that she couldn’t explain. He wasn’t with her, but he was.

 

Meredith tried first to reach her with compassion and understanding. _Izzie, we’re worried about you. We just want to see you well again._ She’d barely spared them a glance on her way back to bed from the bathroom. Denny spent most of his time in her bed, so she ended up spending her days there with him. _Izzie, please. You have to let this go. You’re too thin and you haven’t been outside in weeks._ Denny sang to her. Slow, sad songs that made her heart stutter and her mouth quiver, which he always kissed and called her his silly Izzie. _Damn it, Izzie! This is crazy! We won’t sit around and watch you kill yourself. We’re getting you help._ She moved out the next day, not heeding their pleas to go to the hospital with them and get a psych evaluation. She knew she was not quite right. She did. But this was all she had and she was damned if she would let anyone take this last part of Denny away from her.

 

She smashed the mirror over the bathroom sink after catching her reflection fleetingly when she was undressing for a shower. She’d flinched and paused to stare at her darkly shadowed eyes, her cheekbones standing out against her face in sharp relief, her hair lank and dull around her face. Denny had choked back a horrified sound and run a shaking hand over her pale shoulder before turning and striding quickly into the hall. She’d followed to ask him what was wrong but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. For three days she’d screamed and torn at her hair and rocked back and forth manically on the kitchen floor then she’d taken a trophy she’d won for cheerleading in high school, back when she’d lived in that awful trailer park, and lobbed it at the dirty glass. When Denny reappeared, she simply laid her head down on his lap and breathed in the familiar scent he always brought with him, the one that had faded from the sweater she’d knitted him, of wood smoke and patchouli.

 

He didn’t leave again after that, but sometimes late at night, when they’d spent their energy with slow lovemaking (his groans never filling the room as richly as her keening cries) he would stare sadly at her with those soulful brown eyes and she would know. He wanted to be with her, but he wanted her to live too. He would never say it because she never thought it, but he wanted her to leave him behind and become a new Izzie. She would turn her head away and clench her eyes and eventually fall asleep only to see that same dejected gaze in her restless dreaming. Izzie knew she was in trouble, but she couldn’t turn back now.  She would stay with her Denny, slowly wasting away just to keep him near and she would have him forever. One way or another.


End file.
